


Taut

by sciencefictioness



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, No Spoilers, mild violence, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 11:18:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16871956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: Arthur has stood on clifftops, staring off the edge of the world and wondering how long it would take him to hit the ground.  One more step, out into emptiness where nothing matters anymore, but he’s always too weak to take it, always hesitating.Clinging to a life that doesn’t cling back.He’s waded into riverbanks, the current strong and vicious, tugging at his clothes and trying to draw him in.  Thought about how easy it would be to go limp and let the water take him. Let the river close over his head, blackness all around—  weightless and boneless and nothing is his fault anymore.Thought about how easy it would be, nothing to do but breathe in water, close his eyes, and drift away.  This isn’t anything like that.Then Arthur glances up, and sees him coming over the ridge.  It’s too far, really, and he’s wearing a bandana over the bottom half of his face, but Arthur would know those eyes anywhere.  Across canyons, from miles away. In the dead of night, the sky black and starless, it doesn’t matter; Arthur can still feel him watching.





	Taut

**Author's Note:**

> That no spoilers tag is for the fic but also for me! I am not through with the game, so please no comments that might spoil plot points for me! I Will Cry!

The sun is bright where it peeks over the treeline in the distance, catching on branches, shining periodically into his eyes.  His breath fogs out in front of him; there is still frost clinging to everything, shimmering in the dim light of dawn. Beautiful, ethereal.

 

It’s far too early in the morning to die, especially on a day like this.  Arthur flexes his wrists in the ropes holding them, tenses his throat against the feel of the coils wrapped around it, the worst kind of necktie.  The boards of the gallows are slick under his boots, feet threatening to slide, but he supposes that doesn’t matter.

 

All the traction in the world isn’t going to help him stand for long.

 

One of the lawmen is speaking.  Reading off his crimes, talking about the wrong he’s done like it justifies what they’re doing now.  

 

As if they have any idea.  As if they can look at a few pieces of paper and know the truth of him.  Arthur deserves to die, sure, but not for the things they’re killing him over; a pile of stolen gold, a handful of bullets that didn’t hit home.  Lost wages and flesh wounds. 

 

A line of red ink scratched in a bank ledger and some bandages that will be gone in a week is all Arthur’s life is worth, and it’s hard not to laugh.

 

Between their gold and his life, he’s getting the better end of the deal.

 

He squints up into the sky, eyes lingering on the beam his noose is tied around; old and weathered, wet with melting snow.  Thinks of how many people he’s seen swing like this, listing forlornly back and forth, wood creaking as they choke and gasp.  There’s always panic in their eyes in those last moments. Desperation, as though in spite of everything they’re expecting someone to save them, but no one ever does.

 

Arthur thinks of Dutch.  Sees blood. Hears screaming.

 

The noose around his neck feels like something he’s been wearing for a long, long time now.  Something that belongs there. 

 

Arthur can still see it when he closes his eyes— a gun too big for his shaking hands, smoke coiling up from the barrel, blood sprayed out over his clothes.  Bodies on the ground, limbs twisted in ways only the dead can manage.

 

Hosea’s voice in his ear,  _ easy now, Arthur.  Breathe son, it wasn’t your fault. _

 

It was, though.  Is.

 

Always has been.  

 

There’s no washing off the things he’s done, and Arthur doesn’t try anymore.

 

The people milling around the gallows think they understand condemnation, but they don’t know the half of it.  Couldn’t imagine the depths it reaches, the way the guilt eats into his bones and makes his lungs ache.

 

Arthur has stood on clifftops, staring off the edge of the world and wondering how long it would take him to hit the ground.  One more step, out into emptiness where nothing matters anymore, but he’s always too weak to take it, always hesitating.

 

Clinging to a life that doesn’t cling back.

 

He’s waded into riverbanks, the current strong and vicious, tugging at his clothes and trying to draw him in.  Thought about how easy it would be to go limp and let the water take him. Let the river close over his head, blackness all around—  weightless and boneless and nothing is his fault anymore. 

 

Thought about how easy it would be, nothing to do but breathe in water, close his eyes, and drift away.  This isn’t anything like that.

 

This is… messier, but Arthur will take it all the same.  At least he’s serving some purpose here, giving Charles and John and the others the chance to escape, to get away clean when their job went south.  At least he isn’t dying for nothing— it feels less indulgent, less selfish. Or that’s what Arthur tells himself, anyway.

 

Standing on the trap door of the gallows, ready to swing, he supposes he can tell himself anything he likes.

 

Then Arthur glances up, and sees him coming over the ridge.  It’s too far, really, and he’s wearing a bandana over the bottom half of his face, but Arthur would know those eyes anywhere.  Across canyons, from miles away. In the dead of night, the sky black and starless, it doesn’t matter; Arthur can still feel him watching.

 

John is wide eyed and furious and reaching for his gun, like there is something he can do besides stare.  If anyone could make a shot from this distance it’s John, but there’s nothing to shoot, no way to save him.

 

No villain but Arthur himself.

 

The wood drops out from under him and everything slows down.   A moment of vertigo, and he’s falling, eyes locked on John’s the whole time.  Shocked, as though this is some kind of surprise. Like he didn’t see it coming.  Like this isn’t just what he wanted.

 

Just what he deserves. 

 

Then Arthur hits the end of his rope, and it jerks taut— bruising, suffocating.  It’s an instantaneous sort of regret, the likes of which he’s felt before, if in reverse.

 

Watching someone die isn’t all that different from doing it yourself, he finds.  Just as helpless, just as hopeless, and he still wants to say he’s sorry. Arthur doesn’t mind going, but it’s something he’s meant to do alone.  

 

Not like this.

 

John’s gonna watch him die, and Arthur knows better than anyone how that lingers, how it stains.  All this effort, and he can’t even die right.

 

Leave it to Arthur to fuck things up right to the end.

 

There’s no air, and the rope around his neck feels like metal; harsh and unyielding, a vise grip.  

 

The breathless panic only lasts a moment before the world slows down again.  John's riding down the ridge like a man possessed, gun raised and eyes blazing as a shot rings out.  Birds startle from the trees, dogs barking, horses rearing and tugging at their reins where they’re hitched.

 

Then Arthur is falling, landing underneath the gallows with a thud, the frayed end of his noose dragging through the mud.  His knees hurt. He’s got a headache. He’s tired, and for a few seconds all he can do is choke in air. People are shouting and scrambling away, lawmen pulling out their weapons as Arthur takes in sore, ragged breaths.  It takes longer than it should for him to realize what’s happened, and by the time he puts it together John is there, jerking him upright.

 

John shot the rope.  Hit it from the ridge as though that wasn’t some impossible thing, and now he’s putting his hands on Arthur, like he needs to be sure he’s real.  

 

“What the fuck are you doing, Marston?  Thought I told you to keep ridin’.”

 

It sounds like he’s been eating glass, and all it earns him is a glare.  John’s careless with his blade in his rush to cut Arthur free, slicing a bright red gash into one wrist, fresh blood trickling down his knuckles.  Arthur doesn’t complain.

 

“Been a long time since I took orders from you, Arthur Morgan.”

 

It’s muffled through his bandana, words bitten out and sharp, but true all the same.  

 

It’s been a long time since John took orders he didn’t like from anyone without fighting them every step of the way.

 

Down in his guts someplace Arthur doesn’t want to examine, he’s grateful.

 

John lifts his fingers to his mouth and whistles, firing his pistol haphazardly— he’s not really trying to kill anyone, but the law scatters obligingly, and gives him a chance to mount his horse when it trots up to them.  

 

The mare is used to it;  the gunshots and shouting aren’t anything new.

 

John reaches down and grabs Arthur’s forearm.  Pulls him up, and Arthur goes, settling behind the saddle automatically.  His arms close around John instead of grabbing at the cantle— it’s a bad idea for a lot of reasons.  If he falls off John will come with him, and that’s not good for anyone, but it’s still not really the worst of it.

 

It’s a bad idea because his hands feel like they belong there, curled around John’s belly, fingers fisted in his clothes.  He’s warm, fabric of his clothes rough on Arthur’s skin, the scent of him something that’s etched into Arthur’s nose forever.  Sweat, and gunpowder, the soap he uses to wash his face. Arthur leans in and lays his cheek in between John’s shoulder blades, eyes falling closed.  Just for a moment he breathes, breathes, breathes. There’s still a tightness around his throat— it’s going to bruise, going to be marked in his skin for days.

 

Marked into him for a lot longer, maybe, death haunting him like a ghost, following him like shadow.

 

“I got you,” John says, and Arthur nods.  Draws John’s spare revolver from his side holster, and turns, his other arm still wrapped around John’s waist.  

 

John, keeping him steady, and Arthur takes a breath.  Takes aim. Squints one eye.

 

They ride together, and it’s nothing new.

 

Just another day.

 

-

 

John only slows when his horse threatens to buck them both; he lets her rest a minute, and then starts pushing again, trying to put as much distance as he can between them and the law.  Arthur gets gruff, stilted answers to all his questions about where the gang is, are they safe, is anyone hurt. They’d split up, unsure of where Arthur had been taken once he’d been captured, spreading out to try and find him.

 

Arthur says they shouldn’t have bothered, and John turns his head, and glares again.  There’s something vicious in his eyes, something made of steel and ice that has Arthur wanting to look away.

 

They don’t talk anymore after that.

 

It’s long past dark when they finally stop— visibility has dropped to almost nothing, just the moonlight filtering through the branches overhead. John’s horse is ready to quit on them, weary and irritable from the punishing ride, and Arthur doesn’t blame her.  They pull up next to a stream and dismount, muscles protesting the movement as he shakily lands on his feet. Arthur swears, and stretches, trying to walk out some of the stiffness that’s taken up residence in his joints. It’s a lot colder now, the sun dropped low under the horizon, body not pressed up tight against John.  Arthur shivers.

 

He’s barely gone a half-dozen paces when John jerks him back around.  It’s a sudden tug, rough enough that it hurts his arm, makes his head spin a little.  He opens his mouth to complain but doesn’t get the chance to do much more than let out an annoyed huff.

 

John punches him square in the face.  It’s a right hook— wide and sloppy, something that never would have landed had Arthur been expecting it.  The pain is blooms bright through his cheekbone, stars dancing in his vision, ears ringing. It staggers him, and he’s barely blinked away the shock and righted himself when John throws another one.

 

This one’s a left, and it’s muscle memory more than anything else that has Arthur blocking it, face screwed up in a scowl.

 

“What the  _ fuck  _ is wrong with you?”  Arthur asks, and it’s not his first mistake, but a mistake nonetheless.  Even in the dimness he can see John’s face twist, vicious indignation written across every inch of him.

 

“What’s wrong with  _ me?   _ What’s wrong with  _ you!” _

 

John spits the words, tackling Arthur to ground.  It’s artless, all wild limbs and gravity, but it does the job well enough.  The wind is knocked out of Arthur as he hits the dirt, and John straddles his hips, fist falling so fast that Arthur can’t do anything but take it right in the jaw.  The inside of his bottom lip splits open against his teeth on one side, and his mouth fills with the familiar, coppery tang of blood. Barely a second passes, and Arthur catches John’s fist as he swings again, fingers sliding down to circle his wrist and hold it back.

 

“You hit your fuckin’ head back there, asshole?  Get the hell offa me!”

 

John throws his other fist instead.  Arthur catches it, too, arms shaking under the strain of keeping John’s fury at bay; he hasn’t slept, and the law hadn’t been kind once he’d been put in chains.  Arthur is black and blue under his clothes, bones in his hand not sitting quite right in his skin, every breath a little more work than it should be. John leans in closer, heedless of it all, lip curling up in snarl.

 

“Ain’t no goddamn reason you needed to get caught.  Playin’ hero, tryna save the day, and for what? A few extra miles between us and the law?  Be some fucking martyr, all because shit’s too hard?” John twists one of his wrists out of Arthur’s grip and goes for another punch; wild, and wide, all instinct and no skill.  John can do better.

 

Arthur taught him better.

 

He ducks his head to the side to avoid the blow, John’s knuckles crunching into frost covered leaves next to it.  Then John’s fingers sink into his hair, holding Arthur in place, words venomous as he hisses them through his teeth.

 

“Tryin’ to leave us all here?  You don’t get to do that!”

 

“I’ll do what I damn well please!”  Arthur bellows. John cocks his arm back again, and Arthur has had enough.

 

He rolls them, but trying to pin John down is like wrestling a wildcat—  all teeth and claws, and Arthur’s not coming out of it unscathed. John jerks and twists, elbows flying, knees landing rough in Arthur’s ribs, nails raking his skin when he tries to get a grip.  He’s warm now, even with the wet from the ground seeping into his clothes, and Arthur hates himself.

 

John writhing underneath him feels better than it should, even like this, all violence and unchecked rage.  Something Arthur’s not allowed to want.

 

Something he’s not allowed to have.

 

It takes a long time, and more effort than Arthur wants to admit, but eventually he manages to close his hands around John’s throat.  Squeezes, and squeezes, and the fight goes out of John inch by inch, until he’s limp and clawing weakly at Arthur’s wrists. His lashes flutter, and he makes a wounded noise, and all Arthur can think of it the bruise around his neck.

 

John raising his gun in slow motion, eyes locked on Arthur, unwilling to let go.

 

_ You don’t get to do that. _

 

Arthur loosens his grip but doesn’t move his hands away, rubbing at the redness of John’s throat with shaking fingers as his chest heaves.  John’s voice is raw, barely there, but Arthur can hear it just fine. 

 

Even if he wishes he couldn’t.

 

“Is it really so bad?  You gotta die to get away from me, Arthur?”

 

_ Yes,  _ he thinks, but he’s shaking his head, no, no.

 

He almost died today.  Almost lost this forever.

 

Arthur doesn’t mean to do it, but John is laying there under him— pliant and flushed with leaves in his hair, chin tilted up like some kind of challenge.  Like he’s daring him.

 

Like he’s begging, and all Arthur can do is kiss him.

 

He cradles his head in both hands, and leans down slow, bringing their mouths together.  John stills, and whines, and then pulls him closer, arms going so tight around Arthur that it hurts.  He must make some kind of noise, because John eases back a little, murmuring an apology into Arthur’s lips.   _ Sorry, sorry,  _ but it’s okay.

 

Arthur doesn’t mind.

 

John’s mouth is chapped from the cold, beard rough against Arthur’s own, hands calloused where they’re touching Arthur’s face, and creeping under his shirt.  They stay like that for a long time, tongues spilling together, lips swollen and aching. Arthur is afraid to stop kissing him, afraid this is all he gets.

 

It’s more than he deserves already, and it’s John that finally pulls back, tracing Arthur’s cheekbones with his thumbs.

 

“Let’s set up camp, get a fire going.  Need to eat, and get some rest so we can get going before sun-up.”

 

Arthur nods, not meeting John’s eyes.  It doesn’t feel like a dismissal, but maybe it is one, he doesn’t know.  He gathers whatever dry wood he can find, and John fills their canteens, and tends to his horse.  They sit next to each other and eat jerky and biscuits by the fire, thighs touching, John leaning into him just a little.  Silent, though, like neither of them knows what to say. It’s heavy enough to have Arthur’s guts twisting. Eventually John gets up to roll out his sleeping bag, and Arthur resigns himself to a long, cold night wrapped up in John’s horses blanket. 

 

When he goes for it, though, John snorts like he’s amused.

 

“What the fuck are you doing?  Get your boots and jacket off and get over here.  You smell bad enough without horse to go with it.”

 

Arthur doesn’t have it in him to argue.  Doesn’t want to. He shucks his filthy boots, and his coat, shirt catching and riding up enough that John sees the black blooming over his ribs.  He sits down first, and John’s fingers ease under his shirt, and flit gentle across the bruises there. They sit there a moment, John tracing the violet spreading across his stomach, brows furrowed and mouth flattened in an unhappy line.

 

When he looks up and catches Arthur watching him he stops, sinking down into the sleeping bag and tugging Arthur with him.  Lays on his back, and pulls, until Arthur’s head is on his chest, arm across John’s belly. The fire on one side, and John on the other; he’s still shivering, but it’s nothing to do with the cold.

 

“S’okay,” John says, and Arthur nods.  It’s true, right then, even if it might not be in the morning.  “I gotchu,” he says, and Arthur nods again, and doesn’t worry about that one.

 

John will have him, always.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Tell me nice things.


End file.
